Hourglass
by accio cats
Summary: Promise me you won't fall in love with me this time. - D.L.Z. When the mysterious note landed on Albus Potter's breakfast plate, he thought it was a joke. He was seventeen—he'd never been in love. Love wasn't even on the agenda. And yet, she found him. (An Albus/OC time-travel fic)
1. 3 years 47 days

Albus Potter scratched his head drowsily. The early morning sun was peeking in through the curtains of his dormitory, illuminating the dust covering the window sill, the bed stand, the floor. He sat up in his bed, pajama-clad and slightly dazed. He had the strange, prickling feeling that he was missing something.

He wiggled his fingers and toes—all ten accounted for. He felt at his face to find his nose and his cheeks and his lips and his eyes; none had run off in the night. Scouring the room, he found all six beds in place although maybe, just maybe, upon closer inspection, his own bed had moved an inch to the right.

That would explain the off-kilter feeling.

But that wasn't it.

Then he remembered... _breakfast_.

He leaned over the side of his bed and groped around blindly for a piece of parchment and his quill. He knew they were down there somewhere...

"Aha!"

Across the room, Louis grumbled in his sleep. Albus bit his lip guiltily, then scratched his head again, and rested the found parchment against his folded legs.

 _Going to Breakfast with Scorpius_ , he wrote quickly. Underneath, he added two messy, inked rows.

 _Pros: Breakfast is the most important meal of the day_

 _Cons: It's Scorpius, he'll probably whine the whole time about his daddy issues, Rose will snort her pumpkin juice at me again, the fact that we're disrupting the whole Gryffindor-Slytherin dichotomy will probably throw the entire Great Hall into a black hole_

"Rather con-heavy today, aren't we?" Albus asked the parchment. The parchment remained silent. His stomach, however, interrupted with an ironic growl. Albus gave it a pat and nodded. "Breakfast it is."

Tossing the parchment aside, Albus slid into a pair of worn blue jeans and the only clean t-shirt he could find (a bright orange Chudley Cannons t-shirt from his Uncle Ron). He ran a hand through his sandy brown hair and nodded at his reflection in the mirror beside Joel's bed. His reflection nodded back, red-eyed and pale-faced.

He'd been up all night again. It was only Wednesday and already the second time this week he'd watched the night wax by through the pages of a book. This time, the biography of Cornelius Agrippa, famous wizard author imprisoned by Muggles who thought his writings were evil. He had died in that prison, at age 53.

Even as Albus's feet carried him down the moving staircases towards breakfast, his mind dwelt behind the metal bars of a cold prison cell. He saw the jeering faces of Muggles, who held pitchforks and torches in his imaginings. He smelled must, could almost feel the straw prison bedding. It itched through his t-shirt, prickling his skin.

Albus shivered and then smiled. He would never understand the appeal of fiction when a biography held far more hair-raising, fantastical stories that were _real_ , that kept him up at night with—embarrassingly—goosebumps. And anyway, he was seventeen years old. What use did he have for the make believe?

"Did you lose something?"

Albus blinked. The Great Hall materialized before him, as did a confused and slightly displeased Scorpius Malfoy.

"Mm?" was Albus's response.

"I said, 'did you lose something?' And by something I meant your self-respect. You were scratching at yourself like a dog with fleas."

Albus shrugged and sat down at the Slytherin table. He could feel the glares like heat on his freckled skin.

Scorpius scoffed, brushing a gelled strand of dirty blond hair from his brow. "Sure, let's act like a complete nutter and then sit by Scorpius. Brilliant."

"'Morning," Albus muttered in response.

Scorpius ignored him for the majority of breakfast, his jaw clenching and unclenching almost mechanically. The silence suited Albus just fine. He liked it better when Scorpius was silent. This way, he could pretend that Scorpius wasn't such an insufferable, self-centered ass.

Albus and Scorpius had an accidental friendship, which didn't necessarily equal _real_ friendship. During fourth year, Albus's sister—then a third year—had developed an innocent crush on the Slytherin "bad boy." Naturally, Albus had done some (minor) investigating that resulted in heartbreak for Lily and a strained almost-friendship for Albus and Scorpius. The latter never discovered Lily's feelings, but Albus had learned enough about Scorpius to feel responsible for the boy.

It was an accidental responsibility, which didn't necessarily equal _real_ responsibility.

Perhaps the only tendril of authenticity that kept Albus and Scorpius gravitating to each other was a shared longing to escape their fathers' legacies. Forget their vastly different reasoning—it was a connection. A connection—albeit a tenuous one—that spawned conversations so illuminating, their reality couldn't be denied.

When breakfast stopped replenishing itself, the mail came. Hundreds of owls appeared overhead, narrowly missing one another as their wings carved paths to their recipients. Albus wasn't expecting anything—his parents only sent letters once a week, and no one else wrote to him regularly—but he couldn't help feeling a little jealous of the thick stack of letters that fell on Scorpius's lap.

His friend barely looked at the letters before announcing, "All from mother," and frowning to himself. His eyes (an indecisive hazel) smoldered in unspoken anger, which hung in the air like a bitter aftertaste. He stuffed the letters in his bag, grumbling incoherently and ignoring Albus, who was left to ponder the allure of Scorpius's smoldering gaze.

The owls finished their business of delivery quickly and were gone just as Albus was finishing his scrambled eggs. Eager to be rid of Scorpius's brooding, but pleased that he had paid his dues, Albus shoved the remaining eggs into his mouth and gathered his belongings. He was just about to stand when a crumpled up parchment bounced off his shoulder and landed on his breakfast plate.

Albus stared blankly at the parchment—which began soaking up the left over syrup on his plate—before shooting an angry glance over his shoulder at Rose. Seated alone, Rose was gnawing at a breakfast roll drowsily, eyelids drooping over her baby blues. Her fiery red hair (a Potter-Weasley trademark that Albus could claim only in certain lights and from certain angles), draped her shoulders in knotted curls.

If Albus were to write Rose's biography, he'd start with two simple yet unchanging facts: Rose was not a morning person, but, no matter the hour, she was always the culprit.

"Rose!"

Rose perked up at the sound of her name. She caught Albus's eye and her face broke out in an enthusiastic, but sleepy smile.

"You could've just asked me over instead of throwing things at me," he replied, gesturing at the parchment, which was now a syrupy mess.

Rose's brow furrowed. "Throwing things? Me?"

Albus rolled his eyes, though there was something almost genuine in her voice. Suspicion rose in his throat like bile.

With his fork, he fished the parchment from the sea of syrup and, frowning, began to peel it apart. Scorpius coughed impatiently. Unsatisfied with how slow the process was moving, he reached across the table to grab the parchment and tore it in half in his haste.

"'Promise me you won't—'" he read from the first half as Albus sat listening, half-dazed. Fumbling with the second half, Scorpius flipped it one direction and then the other, stared at it cross-eyed, and eventually gave up. "I can't even read the second one. It's all syrup."

He thrust the halves back into Albus's unsuspecting lap and wiped his hands on a napkin. His eyes were expectant as Albus squinted at the torn note.

"Well?" Scorpius urged.

Rose had moved to Slytherin table, next to Albus. "What does it say?" she added.

"Stop it, Rose. I know it's from you," Albus responded. His voice wavered. He held the second half close to his face.

"'Promise me you won't,'" he repeated, "'fall in… fall in _lone_ '?"

"It says 'love'!" Rose squealed, clearly awake now. "'Promise me you won't fall in love'!"

Albus hushed Rose, who shrugged her shoulders apologetically. "It definitely says 'love.'"

Scorpius raised an eyebrow. "Al, why didn't you tell me you had a girlfriend? You having a secret love affair behind my back?"

This time, it was Albus's turn to ignore him.

"There's more!" Rose whispered urgently. She was tying her wayward hair into a bun, clearing her vision so as to properly read: "'Promise me you won't fall in love with me—'"

"With who?"

"With ' _me_.'"

"Rose, you're my cousin…"

"No, that's what the note says: 'Promise me you won't fall in love with me… _this time_.'"

"This time?" Albus choked. "I don't remember there being a last time. This is obviously a prank." His face felt hot.

"It's signed," Rose continued. "D.L.Z."

"Know anyone with those initials, Al?" Scorpius asked. His lips twisted into a smile, half curious, half something dark.

"Know any girls with those initials?" Rose winked.

Albus grabbed the torn parchment from Rose and stood up, accidentally bumping his fork, which clattered to the floor in a sticky puddle. Several nearby students turned to look.

"It's just a prank. Leave it alone," he snapped, his face red hot. He felt the concern in their eyes as he stormed away, but he didn't look back. He was frustrated and sticky and wanted to be alone. He headed straight for his classroom.

Albus had discovered _his classroom_ during his first year at Hogwarts. He'd been wandering around after hours—a trick James had taught him to cure insomnia—and had heard a noise. He'd scurried down the fifth floor hallway, to the very end, where a collection of statues was being stored. His intention was to hide behind them. That's when he found the room.

Inside, he saw what appeared to him as a ghastly specter in the darkness. As his eyes adjusted, the specter slowly disintegrated into an innocent heap of desks, piled at the center of the room in various stages of disrepair, and covered in the dust of a decade's worth of neglect.

For nearly half an hour he stood there, in the doorway, trying and failing to cast a Lumos spell.

Finally his wand ignited and he entered the room to find a sad, forgotten sort of beauty. A crystal chandelier floated overhead, covered in dust, reflecting fractured light on the gray stone floor. A chalkboard, covered in faded chalk drawings of owls, swallowed the entire wall to his left. Wooden bookcases bloated with age hugged the three remaining walls. They were empty. So Albus filled them.

Little by little, he worked to build a library in the unused classroom. It consisted of merely 43 books, which he placed haphazardly, at least one per shelf. He then moved the desks, one by one, to the Room of Requirement using the map his father had passed down to him.

When the floor was cleared and dusted, he brought in pillows—some from the Gryffindor Common Room, some from his own bed, some (stolen) from friends. He piled them in a corner.

And just like that, the room became his sanctuary.

Over the years, he'd added personal trinkets to the room. A beautiful, antique letterbox his mother had sent him for Christmas fourth year. The first Snitch he'd ever caught, which had broken apart in his hands in its aged fragility. His father's old Sneakoscope. His collection of Bertie Botts Every Flavor Beans trading cards. A flask containing the (probably horrendously mis-brewed) sleeping potion he'd made in first year Potions. And a bag of dungbombs… just in case.

He came to his classroom when girls rejected him. He came when he failed a test. He came when his family got on his nerves, when he felt forgotten, off-kilter, different.

His classroom was the one place he could be totally alone. It was the only place he felt totally at peace.

And now, as Albus stood in the doorway of his classroom, he thought of endings come all too quickly. Graduation. How far away it had seemed when, eyes sparkling with wonder, he'd first walked through the doors of Hogwarts castle. When he'd found this classroom and made it his sanctuary. And now it was his seventh year. His final year.

Albus threw himself atop the pile of pillows, face down, and groaned.

"Seventh year and what have I done?" he said to no one.

Without conscious thought, his hand reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out the two halves of his syrupy note. He flipped onto his back and stared at them.

 _Promise me you won't fall in love with me this time. – D.L.Z._

He let out a dry laugh. "No worries, D.L.Z. I don't have time to fall in love."

And he crumpled the parchment up and hurled it across the room.


	2. 3 years 40 days

The day was hot for early October, which meant most of Hogwarts—students and teachers, living and non-living—had spilled outside once classes let out. Students rimmed the Black Lake, splashing, diving, wading, sticking their bare legs in up to the knee. Some slept facedown on its bank. Still more sat in small groups, laughing—or in couples, faces melded, hands moving over shoulders, backs, butts.

Albus and Scorpius had chosen a tree a ways off from the commotion. They sprawled out in the shade, cradling textbooks and hating their lives.

"Oh, to be a sixth year again," Scorpius sighed.

Albus snorted in return. "What was sixth year good for, anyway?"

Scorpius didn't miss a beat. "Emmett Cormier," he said, his lips twisting into a nostalgic smirk.

Albus remembered, then. He remembered Scorpius harassing the Fat Lady until she agreed to fetch Albus so that Scorpius, looking flustered, could talk his ear off about the evening he'd had with Emmett Cormier. He remembered yawning through his half of the conversation and swearing, for the dozenth time, not to tell anyone.

"Oh, right, _Cormier_ —the bloke who is, for all intents and purposes, _straight_."

Scorpius didn't reply right away. He rolled onto his stomach and picked a blade of grass, twirling it between his fingers as his smirk subtly deepened.

"He wasn't straight in the Room of Requirement when I—"

"Hey Louis!" Albus shouted as the lolling figure of his cousin came into view.

Scorpius hissed a "thank you" from the corner of his mouth as Louis jogged over and plopped down between them, the contents of his bag nearly spilling onto the untrimmed grass. He looked altogether too jolly for an afternoon of essay writing.

Albus could feel sweat beading on his forehead. He swiped at it with the palm of his hand, which only made it worse.

"You lot working on the Transfiguration essay?" Louis smiled his part-Veela smile and Albus silently wallowed.

"Charms." "Astronomy." Albus and Scorpius chorused.

"I hate seventh year."

"Mmmmm," Albus and Scorpius agreed.

The boys all looked heavenward, appreciating the clouds and wishing for graduation and blowing off work for half a minute. Then Albus sighed and Scorpius threw the blade of grass he'd been twirling and Louis swept a tendril of hair from his forehead.

"What are you doing after graduation, Al?" Louis began laying all of his books out, spine to fore edge. A brief wind rustled the leaves overhead and tickled the back of Albus's neck. "I mean, you'll work for Uncle Harry, right?"

"Dear _Uncle_ Harry," Scorpius chirped.

Louis furrowed his brow.

"I will," Albus said without hesitation.

"Really?" The squint to Scorpius's eyes betrayed genuine surprise.

"Me too," Louis echoed, ignoring Scorpius; but Scorpius wouldn't be ignored. He pushed himself into a seated position, grass stains dampening the knees of his trousers, and threw a scroll of parchment at Albus. It hit the toe of his trainer.

"Oy, you're really going to be an Auror? I would've thought you'd, I dunno, write biographies."

It was Louis who jumped to the rescue. "Are you kidding? Harry Potter's son write books?"

Scorpius's eyes went dark. " _Harry Potter's son_ has a name."

"I know that, _Malfoy_. You've got quite a name, too."

"Oh, right. I'm obviously my father's clone, since Al is his father's."

Albus threw up his hands. "Seriously, mates. Can we write our bloody essays?"

Scorpius swatted at a horsefly, already bored with the whole conversation. Louis shrugged his shoulders, but the set of his jaw held all of his unspoken spite.

"I was leaving anyway," Scorpius breathed, languidly gathering his books and slipping them into his bag. "It's too hot out. I'm going to cool down in the Prefect baths." He was standing now, his white-blond head dotting out the sun like an eclipse. "Albus. Weasley." He nodded coldly at both in turn.

Louis looked at his hands as Scorpius trumped towards the castle. A sigh flitted through Albus's nostrils.

"I swear he hates me," Louis voiced once Scorpius was only a pinprick in the distance.

" _I_ hate you," Albus half-teased.

Louis laughed and that was the end of their talking for the next hour.

* * *

When it was too dark to read what he'd written, Albus gave up and went inside. Louis had finished his essay and left hours ago, but Albus's essay refused to be written just as his mind refused to focus. He kept fiddling with the note from D.L.Z. stored in the pocket of his jeans and wondering if he'd ever find who'd written it—or why he even cared.

Once inside the castle, he headed for the library. He didn't feel like facing the Great Hall or stomaching dinner. He felt like dwelling. And pretending to write his essay.

As Albus topped off the stairs to the third floor, he heard a commotion—shouts and laughter and high-pitched shrieking. Curiosity peaked, he hurried toward the sounds, feeling a rush of purpose, of need. He turned the corner, his breathing slightly labored, and saw a group of students gathered just outside the library, holding up their arms and squealing as book after book was hurtled into their midst. A crackling _whoosh_ filled the air as pages fluttered, followed by the resounding _thud_ of books hitting the ground. And Madame West, the librarian, stood on tiptoe, swatting at a very smug-looking Peeves.

"Give those back, you miscreant!" she shrieked, glasses askew.

The crowd of students erupted in laughter as Peeves flew a foot or two higher, dangling a book over Madame West's short, flailing arms.

Albus crossed the hallway and joined the group before consciously deciding to do so. He wasn't laughing, though. He felt glued to the floor. He felt the need again—the need to be there, to witness. It was a strange feeling—almost icy in its urgency.

Another pair of books whooshed through the air, arcing beautifully before falling with dramatic booms, causing two mousey girls to squeal and latch onto each other.

"I'll get the Bloody Baron!" Madame West threatened. Peeves's twisted mouth showed concern for a fraction of a second before he pulled another book from its shelf and tossed it experimentally in her direction. The poor librarian had to nearly leap out of the way.

Then Peeves was back to throwing book after book into the hallway and the crowd outside was growing bigger—so big that Albus was swallowed up in its middle. There were fists pumping, the crowd pulsing and moving, the air alive with an electric anticipation. So caught up in the moment, Albus didn't even notice when a heavy tome came hurtling straight for his forehead. He saw it seconds before it collided with the bridge of his nose and sent stars shooting across his vision.

Then there was a pressure under his armpits. He was moving. Faces appeared and disappeared, his vision expanding and shrinking like the slow inner-workings of lungs. The cold relief of stone was at his back and he felt arms prop him up. A wall of hair fell into his vision. He looked up into the concern of deep brown eyes.

"Can you hear me?" the girl spoke.

Albus nodded. The stars faded, his vision clearing and bringing to attention a stinging pain in his nose. He brushed the back of his hand to his nostrils. He was bleeding.

"How many fingers am I holding up?" the girl continued. She waved a hand in front of his face.

"Four." Albus blinked. "I'm fine, you don't have to—"

"Now follow my finger with your eyes."

"Really, I'm fine, it just… scared me." Albus shrugged. "And I'm bleeding."

The girl nodded and pulled her wand from behind her ear. She cast a quick Episkey spell and Albus felt the pain melt away.

"Aren't you a Gryffindor?" she asked, tucking her wand away. Her face was scrunched as though Albus had presented her with an unsolvable equation.

"Yes."

"And a _book_ scared you?"

Albus huffed. "Thanks for you help." He made to stand up, but the girl pressed her palms against his chest.

"You should sit for another minute."

"No, I should go study." He nodded his head toward the library, where the crowd was beginning to disperse. Either Peeves had tired of his game or Madame West had gotten the Bloody Baron after all. Either way, the commotion had died down and students were hurrying off to dinner.

"You should at least clean up, then." She offered him a hand and he gratefully accepted it. Once on his feet, he felt strangely self-conscious. He was standing in front of an attractive girl with a bloody nose. But his feet held him in place.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"Tracy Hopkins. Sixth year, Ravenclaw—because I knew you would've asked." Her smile revealed dimples and Albus felt simultaneously disappointed and intrigued. Some part of him had hoped she would be the mysterious D.L.Z., but of course the universe wasn't so orderly. At least she was cute.

"I'm—"

"Albus Potter, of course. Everyone knows who you are."

"Oh." His cheeks went hot.

"You take care of yourself, Albus." Tracy pointed a finger at him, almost scolding. "I can't always come to your rescue."

And Tracy spun on her heel and bobbed away.

Albus chuckled to himself, swiping at his nose again as he headed towards the nearest bathroom to clean up. The urgency that had held him to the spot faded, and he began to wonder if he'd only imagined it.

* * *

Four days passed with very little commotion. He managed to finish his essay, attend Quidditch practice, and remain generally unnoticed by all but Rose. This gave him plenty of time to obsess over the note from D.L.Z. He'd pulled it from his pocket so many times that the parchment was thinning and marked with his fingerprints.

It was times like this that he wished he were a Ravenclaw, or at the very least that he had a close Ravenclaw friend. He needed someone to help him riddle this out—to tell him what to research, what to _do_ —but the only Ravenclaw he felt remotely close to was his cousin, Molly, and if he told her about the note she'd tell the rest of his family. He'd rather not be the subject of the Potter-Weasley gossip mill for the next month.

This is why he was closer to Rose—she could be a nutcase at times, but she was a nutcase who kept his secrets.

"I'm going to throw it away," Rose said one day that week.

"Hmm?"

"I'm throwing it away. The note."

They were sitting in Albus's dorm midday. The rest of the seventh year boys were off being studious while Albus pretended to be a non-person, sitting cross-legged on his bed and staring at the note, willing it to spill its secrets.

"No you're not."

Rose raised an eyebrow. "Is that a challenge?"

"No."

Without warning, Rose flung herself onto his bed. She grabbed at his hands, but he was too quick. He balled the note in his fist and curled his body into the fetal position. Rose changed tactics, grabbing a pillow and hitting him over the head, again and again, while Albus laughed. He couldn't help it—the laughter was like wild fire, catching and spreading until his lungs ached and his face turned a deep red.

"I can't _breathe_!" he wheezed.

That's when Albus's best mate, Joel Blackwood, walked in.

"Gross. Aren't you two related or something?" he teased.

Rose eased up on Albus, tossing the pillow in Joel's direction instead.

"He's dwelling again." Rose stuck her tongue out at Albus as Joel sat on his own bed, pulling off his shoes one by one.

"We've already asked half of Gryffindor House and nobody knows a D.L.Z.," Joel responded, leaning back onto his own disheveled sheets and closing his eyes. "You're going to drive yourself crazy, mate."

"Too late," Rose said.

She was right, though. Albus felt like he was going crazy—staying up too late, his eyes developing the telltale dark rings; skipping meals; shutting himself up in his dorm while the rest of Hogwarts went to Hogsmeade on the weekends.

"It's not a big deal," Albus shrugged them off. He reached at the foot of his bed for his trunk and shoved the note in, under a pile of clothes. "See, not dwelling."

He waited until Rose had gone and Joel was lightly snoring before digging it back out.


	3. 3 years 35 days

Albus sat up in a panic, sweat creeping down his back, licking his forehead. His bed sheets were plastered to his bare chest.

He watched in horror as ivy appeared on the stone walls of his dormitory. The ivy crawled down, down, down to the cold floor, sprouting salmon-colored, razor-sharp flowers like teeth. Albus gathered the sheets in his trembling hands, his vision growing smoky.

His bed began to rock, suddenly afloat on choppy waters. He felt the wetness on his face. Salt on his lips. His stomach churned like the currents whipping him back and forth.

And there she was. Looking eerily familiar in her white robe, the fabric wet and billowing as the waves rocked her small frame. Though far from reach and shrinking by the second, he heard her breath as though her lips were pressed to his ear.

"Albus."

He opened his mouth only to choke on the salty mist. His chest heaved. He couldn't breathe.

" _Albus!_ "

He inhaled sharply, expecting his lungs to fill with water. Instead, the vision of Joel Blackwood, pajama-clad and confused, materialized before him. The boy stood on firm, unmoving stone. Albus's vision cleared and he sat up again, very awake.

"Albus, for Merlin's sake, get yourself together," Joel hissed.

Albus coughed several times, roughly, in response.

"Do I have to call for Madame Reid?"

Albus shook his head. "Just a nightmare," he murmured.

"Oh yeah? Couldn't have guessed," Joel teased. He tossed a pillow gracelessly at Albus and added, "Now, if you're going to live, cover up. Your paleness is burning my eyes."

Nodding, Albus heaved himself up, wiping the sweat—or was it _tears?_ —from his eyes. As he did so, he noticed a long, thin contour running down the inside of his left arm. He blinked at it once, then twice, then ran a curious finger from its beginning to its end.

He looked up at Joel, who was now rummaging through his trunk.

"Does this look like a scar to you?" Albus asked, still gazing at the raised line of skin.

Joel threw a clean towel over his shoulder and looked at Albus frankly. "Madame Reid?" he echoed.

"No, I'm fine. I haven't gone mad. I just… I've never seen this scar before."

Joel shrugged. "You probably got banged up at a Quidditch game and forgot about it." He was hunting for socks now. "Do you think we'll be practicing our Patronuses in Defense Against the Dark Arts again? I hope we do. I almost have it."

As Albus ran his finger along the scar again, he felt a faint twinge. The room threatened to go hazy.

"You know, I think I might head down to see Madame Reid. I'm feeling a bit ill," he decided aloud. His voice sounded as though it was reaching him through a long tunnel.

Joel shot him a worried glance. "Yeah, mate, I wasn't kidding when I said you looked pale." He frowned sympathetically. "You go. Vanessa and I will bring you breakfast."

* * *

The cool Hospital Wing pillowcase felt like heaven against Albus's hot cheek. He flipped on his stomach, buried his face in the fabric, and sighed.

"Mr. Potter?" A voice interrupted his almost-nap.

Albus groaned, his head pounding. "Five more minutes?"

"Mr. Potter, I've brought your medicine." It was Madame Reid. Sheepishly, Albus accepted the potion Madame Reid offered with an outstretched hand.

"It'll help with the dizziness," she answered before he could ask. Her rouged lips turned into a smile and she nodded encouragingly. "It tastes like chamomile."

Albus drank the potion without coming up for air. The ground immediately seemed firmer.

"Thanks," he breathed.

"Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr. Potter?" she asked, taking the empty glass from him.

"No, I suppose not. You're sure about the scar—"

"Yes, Mr. Potter. It's just your run-of-the-mill scar. Nothing magical about it. Like your friend said—Joel, is it?—it's probably just an old Quidditch injury you've forgotten about. Good luck Saturday, by the way. I don't often broadcast this, but I was a Gryffindor, too, in my day." She winked conspiratorially and headed towards her office.

"Err—Madame Reid, am I free to go?"

Madame Reid nodded, her blond curls bobbing. "Yes, dear, you're free to go. Come back and see me if the dizziness shows up again."

Albus watched the matron disappear behind the wooden door of her office, situated in the corner of the wing. He sat up in bed, considering standing but still wary of the floor. Its dull gray stones glared at him menacingly. Any moment they'd spring water and he'd be hoisted atop raging waves of salt and foam, carrying him up, higher and higher, until he was riding the crystal-chandelier-turned-boat.

Gathering himself, Albus conjured his inner Godric and stood up. Mercifully, he felt solid and unwavering. That is, until a red-haired figure bolted into the room screaming, "Albus, don't go! Albus, don't leeeeeave me!"

Rose.

"Merlin, Rose. I'm not dying."

His cousin flung herself onto Albus's now empty bed, resting the back of her right hand dramatically against her forehead. Her hair fell from its previously tidy bun, splaying across the too-white sheets.

"Whatever will I tell your mother? She will be devastated," Rose cooed.

Albus rolled his eyes. "You can tell her that she has a dolt of a niece," he replied affectionately. "Now get off the bed. You're not a patient."

Rose broke the charade by laughing boisterously. "Be nice to me," she replied, sitting up, her unruly hair tickling her shoulders. "I brought you breakfast."

"What happened to Joel and Vanessa?" Albus asked, already unraveling the napkin Rose had offered. Inside were a piece of toast and three slices of bacon.

"Joel forgot something for Defense Against the Dark Arts. Had to run back upstairs for it and Vanessa is basically his conjoined twin. Why do you have such idiot friends, Al?"

"Makes me feel at home," Albus teased before shoving his mouth full of bacon.

Rose stuck her tongue out at him.

Madame Reid reemerged from her office holding a glass bottle containing a bright orange, bubbling liquid. She administered the potion to a boy at the opposite end of the wing, speaking to him in a voice that sounded almost like cooing. He looked dazed, mouth hanging open lamely; the serum trickled down his chin. Probably a first-year who was on the wrong end of a spell gone wrong.

Feeling uncomfortably voyeuristic, Albus looked away.

"Oh, by the way, Sophie's been looking for you. She looked worried," Rose piped up.

"Sophie?" he replied. "Did she hear I was sick?"

Sophie's warm, kindly face pulled at his attention and he felt himself frown.

Albus had met Sophie in fourth year, when Albus and Rose had gotten into a fight over the correct spelling of "thestral" (Albus had won) and he needed a new partner for Potions. Sophie's brewing skills were dismal, but her tinkling laugh put him at ease. They became friends of convenience—a friendship which, in time, developed genuine depth through easy conversation. The gentle Hufflepuff was never fussy and she became something of a crutch to Albus. Lately, however, she seemed a ball of nerves in his company.

"Look, just tell her you're not interested and she can move on. You're beginning to remind me of Lily."

Albus swallowed his half-chewed bacon to argue, "I do not lead Sophie on. She's my friend."

"She's desperately in love with you," Rose offered, retying her hair into a pristine bun. "You can't be friends with someone who wants to have your children, like, yesterday."

Ears growing hot, Albus took a large bite of his uneaten toast to avoid admitting that she might, for once, be right. He shrugged and pointed to his mouth, indicating that it was too full to speak. Rose rolled her eyes.

"Just give her that note," she replied. "She'll get the hint. _Promise me you won't fall in love_ —"

Albus clamped a hand over Rose's mouth. "Shhhh!" Crumbs of dry toast sprung from his mouth. He gazed across the wing at the dazed boy, the potential eavesdropper. The boy looked to be sleeping, his chest rising and falling rhythmically beneath the rumpled sheets. Madame Reid had disappeared once again.

Rose shook him off and snorted. "Fine, be that way," she huffed, rubbing her jaw where Albus had held it.

"I don't want the rumors to start again."

Rose nodded knowingly. "You're sure you're okay, though?" she asked. "Joel said you looked pretty freaked this morning. Did something happen?"

"It was nothing."

A strand of light broke through the oversized stained glass window near the entrance to the Hospital Wing, illuminating a square of floor inches from Albus's feet. He could see the dust motes circling, dyed by the colored panes of glass. He reached out to grab one.

"Albus?"

His hand came back empty.

"I'm fine," he monotoned.

"You don't sound terribly convincing." Albus looked to Rose, meeting her sincere eyes. She wasn't probing him for gossip; she was being a good friend.

He considered telling her about the nightmare, about the strangely familiar woman in white, her memory making him ache with the weight of something forgotten. He thought about showing her the scar, asking her if she'd ever seen it and whether or not old scars were supposed to twinge. He even thought about admitting that he'd been thinking about D.L.Z.'s letter every day, that it had a strange power over him, almost like a curse.

He thought about telling her. But instead he lied.

"Yeah, well I'm fine. Happy?"

Sighing, Rose moved slightly to her right and patted the bed beside her. Albus sat down. Immediately, arms were thrown around his shoulders and he was caught in a rib-crushing hug.

"Rose!" He struggled to escape. Rose obliged.

"Anything you need, I'm your girl. Understand? A shoulder to cry on, a hit man, more bacon… you name it, I got it."

A small laugh bubbled up and Albus let it escape.

"That's what I like to hear." Rose knocked him roughly on the back. "Now, walk with me to class?"

Albus shook his head. He pulled his sleeve down self-consciously to hide the telltale scar, which gave a slight twinge as the fabric moved against it. "Not really feeling up to it."

"Alright. You go do whatever you do, and I'll see you at Quidditch practice." She winked.

"You know Helen isn't going to let you on the team just because you show up to all the practices."

Rose grabbed the empty napkin from Albus's unsuspecting hand, balled it up, and tossed it easily into the nearest trash can. She fist-pumped the air in celebration, then turned to Albus. "You were saying?"

"Okay, Rose," Albus laughed. "I'll see you at Quidditch practice."

Rose hopped up and skipped out of the Hospital Wing without a backwards glance. Albus couldn't help but smile.

He envied Rose, sometimes—her unabashed confidence, her childlike demeanor, her ability to make even the most unbearable situations somehow comical. Other times he pitied her. She was far too naïve and far too careless; she got herself into trouble that way.

But that's why they were so close. Albus was adept at cleaning up messes, and Rose at causing them. They were the perfect team.

* * *

It was seven o'clock when Albus went to bed that night. He sent Rose to Quidditch practice with the message that he wasn't feeling well—which was only half true. He still felt vaguely seasick. But it wasn't enough, in and of itself, to keep him from Quidditch.

Albus had played through bouts of the flu. He'd braved near-hurricane conditions and had even played with a fractured wrist. He loved Quidditch. It was the one thing he could do equally as well as his father. It was their connection.

No, it wasn't just the nausea. Albus couldn't quite put his finger on it. He just didn't feel like playing Quidditch today. Even more than that, he felt that he _shouldn't_ play Quidditch today—not necessarily that something bad would happen, but that he simply shouldn't go.

Of course he hadn't admitted this to Rose. She would've asked why and he had no answer to give. Something inside of him, something weighted, something persuasive, kept him in his four-poster, thumbing the torn up note from D.L.Z.

Until Joel appeared, looking haggard.

Neither said a word, just looked at each other, and Albus felt the weighted something lighten as he considered his friend's hollow expression. Joel had been there for him that morning; it was Albus's turn to return the favor. So he initiated _the position_. He scooted to the foot of his bed as Joel crossed the room and plopped down beside him, his breathing somewhat heavy. The boys sat there, silently, for the span of three minutes as Joel's breathing cooled.

"Thanks," Joel finally said.

Albus knew he was being thanked for his silence. He nodded once, but didn't respond. The "thanks" was an ongoing thing. It always was. It meant present gratitude for letting Joel cool down and future gratitude for continued silence as Joel wrestled with his ugly thoughts aloud.

"It's bollocks," Joel said. "It's not like I chose to be a wizard. Like I chose to leave her behind."

Jen. Joel's twin sister. A Muggle.

"It's—I mean, I get it—she feels abandoned. But so do I! Or I did, at first, when she was home with mum and dad and all our friends and I was learning all this shit for the first time. Back when everyone laughed at me for not knowing what a Galleon was."

Albus nodded. He didn't _understand_ understand, but he did understand. He felt James's absence acutely these days, when James was so busy with Auror training that he barely had time to sleep let alone write. But at least they'd had six years at Hogwarts together.

"Being a twin is weird because there's this other person who is so much like you that you just assume you'll do everything together. So when that other person suddenly isn't with you it's like she died."

Joel turned to look at Albus, which was mildly alarming considering Joel-vent-time usually consisted of Albus (willingly) becoming invisible or, at the very most, a brick wall.

"Albus, you don't know how lucky you are to live in a pureblood family."

Albus wanted to say something, then. He wanted to say lots of somethings, like how he wasn't very lucky at all to always be compared to the greatest wizard alive and that being in a family of witches and wizards meant you weren't very special at all, but he knew it wouldn't help the situation so he said nothing, instead.

"She hasn't written me all month," he finally said, which made everything click into place. "Mum wrote to tell me about how well she's doing in school and how she's dating some bloke that I'd approve of. How am I to know I'd approve of him? What if he's really quiet? I hate quiet people—they're always up to something. Or what if he doesn't like Quidditch? Well shit, he probably knows nothing about magical sports! He's useless."

The laugh Albus had been holding in found its way out his nose in a sneeze-like snort. Joel stiffened at the sound. Then, seeming to realize his own digression, he melted into a more cognizant gloom.

"I hate it. I hate how divided we are, like she's a distant cousin or something—which doesn't apply to your family because you're all so bloody close and _dammit Albus_ your family is perfect."

"Joel."

Joel looked at Albus like he'd broken a law instead of just the silence.

"Joel," he repeated. "Have you written her?"

Joel let out a low growl. "Why is that relevant? Why do I always have to take the initiative? Why can't she—"

"You're the one that left, mate."

Silence, now on Joel's end. Albus could feel him fuming under his skin, could almost hear his bones rattling against the fury taking form inside of his chest. He half expected Joel to stomp out of the room in a plume of smoke—he'd always had a short fuse. But then, miraculously, Joel slumped forward into a sigh and his arguments rolled onto their backs in defeat and he muttered,

"Fuck you, Albus..."

and Albus knew all would be well.

"You can write her tomorrow morning. I give you the night off for the release of anger."

A snort of laughter escaped from behind Joel's hands, which were covering his shamed face. He shortly removed his hands and sent one flying into Albus's shoulder. The latter gave Joel a push in return. Manly expressions of love, and all that.

"Do you think if I gave Jen my blood—like she had a full transfusion with my magic blood—that she'd be a witch? Because it'd be a lot more fucking fun to be magic together."

Albus frowned. "What's a trans- transfershun?"

Joel laughed again—a hearty belly laugh that danced around the cold, stone room.

"Purebloods," Joel sighed.

"Mudbloods," Albus teased.

"Hey, that used to be an insult, you know!"

"Oh give it a rest, it's not 1997."

And just like that, D.L.Z. was forgotten.


	4. 3 years 32 days

Three days later, D.L.Z. was anything but forgotten and his scar was still bothering him.

 _Dad,_

 _Can I ask you a favor? If mum is reading this letter with you, can you ask her to go into a different room? It's man stuff._

 _Is she gone? It's not really man stuff. I wanted to ask you about your scar, but I don't want mum to worry because it's not a big deal. I wanted to ask if your scar still twinges, or if that was just a Voldemort thing. I have a scar and I can't remember if it's old or new, but it twinges every once in a while. Maybe once an hour or so. Just every once in a while. I had the nurse look at it and she said it wasn't magical, so it probably shouldn't be twinging right?_

 _You can tell mum that I'm doing well in my classes and that we're playing Slytherin in a few weeks. I'll send another letter soon after I talk to Lily. I know she's bad at writing home, so I'll do it for her._

 _Love,  
Al_

Albus set down his quill and looked up to see Joel and Vanessa gazing lovingly at one another in the middle of the Common Room, Vanessa's small frame coiled agilely on Joel's lap, the former occasionally giggling and glancing nervously about the room while the latter pressed kisses against her neck. Albus wished they'd just make out; it would be less intimate than this. But Vanessa had a thing about affection in public—a residual habit from her childhood in Dubai, where public kissing was quite literally _illegal_.

She had a line that Joel always came close to crossing.

Though the lovebirds only took up one cushion of the overstuffed couch, the other Gryffindors had given them a wide berth, avoiding the entire circle of furniture surrounding the hearth.

This was a common enough occurrence that no one seemed to mind sacrificing the comfiest seating to allow the Cutest Couple in Gryffindor—a title granted by an anonymous poll scribbled on spare parchment and passed around furtively for weeks—a designated space.

That didn't mean that Albus was okay with it, however.

Desperate for escape, he shoved the letter and his ink into his bag and hastily got up to leave. But before he'd taken so much as two steps, Joel tore his gaze from Vanessa's and yelled, "Oy, where do you think you're going?"

Albus groaned. Somehow, his best mate had developed clairvoyance; he could detect movement mid-googly eyes. Perhaps Divination was good for something after all.

"Owlery. I have to mail this letter home," Albus responded, moving toward the portrait hole with hands held high in a display of innocence. "I'll be right back."

"Nonsense, mate. Vanessa and I wanted to talk to you about something."

Albus considered his options. He tucked in the back of his button up awkwardly, thinking about how he'd rather not spend his afternoon as a third wheel. Hiding away in the Owlery amidst owl poop and mouse bones seemed even less appealing.

"Okay," he conceded. "But quickly. I do need to mail this letter."

Vanessa slid onto the floor, opening up space for Albus to sit. She leaned against Joel's legs and began picking at her fingernails. Albus shuffled over to sit beside Joel, letting the bag slide from his shoulder and onto the cushion beside him. The contents shuffled inside, his inkbottle clinking against his reading glasses.

"We're worried about you, Al," Joel said, his voice hushed and strikingly genuine. "You haven't been yourself lately."

Albus felt his discomfort begin to chip away. Despite his distaste for the excruciating publicity of their affection, Joel and Vanessa were two of his closest friends and they cared about him. Gratitude pressed against his chest.

"I guess I have been distracted," he admitted.

"By that note?" Joel asked, rearranging his now unkempt locks, which hung just below his ears in a charcoal two shades lighter than Vanessa's pin-straight sheet of hair.

The latter reached behind her head to pat Albus's kneecap. "You should be flattered to have a secret admirer. And she would be lucky to have you."

"I know," Albus replied, "I just—err—I don't believe that's what it is though."

Vanessa patted his knee thrice more with a manicured hand, the smell of patchouli on her skin. Albus and Joel often teased her for her habit of burning incense, calling her a "closet hippie," but neither could deny that her morning meditations resulted in an unshakably clear and calm mind—infuriatingly so.

"Regardless," Joel replied dismissively, "we think you should stop dwelling on the bad—mysterious letters, unknown illnesses, stalker girlfriend—"

"Sophie's not my girl—"

"He's only kidding," Vanessa interrupted, shooting Joel a disapproving glare.

"Regardless," Joel echoed. "We've taken it upon ourselves to cheer you up. And what better way than by _distraction_?"

Vanessa flipped around, resting her elbows on Joel's knees and smiling up at Albus. Her deep-set, brown eyes twinkled. Albus attempted a smile in return, but his scar gave an unexpected twinge, twisting his expression into a grimace.

"You're going on a date!" Vanessa sing-songed.

Albus had the sudden sensation of being hit by a bus—the air squeezing from his lungs, his eyes bulging. "You're kidding."

Joel nodded solemnly. "Desperate times call for desperate measures."

A silence fell, punctuated by the scratching of quills and shuffling of papers. Several pairs of eyes flitted in their direction. Seventh years always became a source of entertainment—in a cautionary tale sort of way.

As Albus considered Joel's proposition, he briefly thought back to the first time they'd met. Albus had been sitting at the Gryffindor table, enjoying his welcome feast with shaking hands, a tinny ringing in his ears. The food, so luxurious a spread, had no taste. He felt light-headed and impatient and totally wrong for the House of the courageous.

And then there was Joel, a little firecracker of a first year, sitting beside an intimidatingly beautiful sixth year girl. And what did Joel do? He asked her on a date. Albus had thought it unspeakable and watched for the inevitability of Joel's humiliation. Instead, the girl had laughed, had called him adorable. Albus's world shifted in that moment and suddenly he was no longer nervous. Suddenly, he was laughing. He was laughing so hard that he had to hold his stomach for fear it would burst. Joel watched, fascinated, and when Albus finished laughing they were immediate friends.

Ever since, Joel had been pulling ridiculous stunts. Somehow or another they always worked in his favor (even if they didn't technically work). He was either the luckiest or the cleverest person Albus knew—perhaps both.

So how could Albus say no?

"Okay, fine," he replied, his tone reluctant. "But just one date."

Joel smirked. "Fair enough."

Vanessa clapped her hands together once. "Now to collect the data."

"Data?"

"Blonde or brunette?"

Albus cleared his throat. "Oh, umm, brunette."

"Short or tall?"

"Vanessa, I—"

"Too superficial," she agreed, sensing Albus's unvoiced apprehension. "Okay, how about this one: What House would you _not_ date? Slytherin?"

"Gryffindor," Albus replied. He half expected the date to go terribly and didn't fancy having to avoid the Common Room for the rest of the year. To appease Joel's raised eyebrow, though, Albus lied, "Wouldn't want to compete with Gryffindor's Cutest Couple."

Joel winked at Vanessa affectionately.

"One more," Vanessa continued. "On a scale of 1-10, how important is your family's approval?"

Albus rolled his eyes at Joel's resultant snickering. He knew they were both remembering fifth year, when Albus dated Nora Westover from Slytherin—a shy girl, but surprisingly good at kissing—and his family had called a meeting to discuss Albus's mental health. Nora had a reputation for sleeping around, a reputation that Albus had never been able to confirm or deny, and his family had disapproved. At the time, he cared enough about their general opinion of his girlfriends and so he dumped her.

In time, he regretted the decision. Nora really had been a great kisser.

"Three," he decided aloud.

Joel and Vanessa exchanged enigmatic smiles. Then Vanessa erupted in a torrent of giggles.

"We already have the girl picked out," she squeaked through her laughter. "I just wanted to know what you'd say!"

"Is that it, then?" Albus voiced. "Are we good?"

"Yeah, that's it," Joel replied, eyeing Vanessa as her laughter slowly fizzled. "Your lady caller will appear at your door within the fortnight."

Vanessa piped in. "He means within 48 hours."

"And I'll know it's her because…?"

"You'll know," Joel replied. "Without a doubt."

Albus tossed his bag over his shoulder and clumsily saluted the pair. "Right. I'll see you two later," he voiced, walking backwards in the direction of the dormitories.

"Uhh—Albus," Joel called after him. "The Owlery's the other way."

Albus spun around and shouted, unnecessarily loudly, "Oh, it is? How silly of me."

"You're making another pro/con list aren't you?" Joel yelled up to him. His voice echoed off the walls of the upstairs landing, swooping in on Albus from a seemingly infinite number of directions. "You better not chicken out, Al!"

 _Going on a Blind Date_

 _Pros: Joel's right, it will distract me._

 _Cons: It could cause even more problems, like with Sophie. (Why did I just write that? I've been Imperiused, obviously.) I'll probably make a fool of myself. Again. And if James finds out he'll probably tease me. This is why I hate dating. I hate everything._

Albus crumpled up the parchment, opened the window, and hurled it out. He counted twenty-six seconds before squeals of distress rent the air. Then he closed the window and sat grumpily on his four-poster, his scar taking the opportunity to goad him further by giving a distinctive twinge.

* * *

The sun burned low in the darkening sky. Albus sat alone in the bleachers, the night breeze rippling the fabric of his Quidditch robes, which were dirt-stained and reeking. Quidditch practice had ended thirty minutes previous, when the sun just barely kissed the treetops, yet Albus remained—a lone figure in the big, dark expanse of the Quidditch Pitch.

Wand tip aglow, Albus read. The pale light of his Lumos spell bathed him in ghostly white. This remained his only form of protection—appearing as an undead apparition, that is. He didn't bother with protective spells; roving around after hours had become so routine that it gave him less anxiety than brushing his teeth.

This reading of his had become routine, too. Albus always read after a particularly demanding Quidditch practice. It was an escapist approach to coping with the pain of aching muscles. When he resurfaced from his biography of choice, sometimes hours later, the ache purred at low tide and his walk back to Gryffindor Tower was without complaint.

Tonight, Albus had chosen a biography of Albus Dumbledore written just a year after his death: _Hogwarts' Finest Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore, 1881-1997_. With dog-eared and yellowing pages, a soft binding, and a cover both dirty and creased, this biography was easily Albus's favorite. He'd lost count after 23 reads, often returning to the book in the hopes of discovering a secret message left just for him (a la the Snitch left for his father).

It was a silly hope, and he knew it. The man had died long before Al popped into existence. But he kept on hoping. After all, the life of his namesake had been extraordinary. Albus Dumbledore was the greatest wizard who ever lived, according to the seven biographies written in his honor (minus Rita Skeeter's, which had been discredited less than a year after its release). Who wouldn't want even a fragment of advice from such a brilliant man?

Albus looked up suddenly. His heart beat frantically, signaling danger, and Albus was standing before consciously deciding to, the book and his wand falling from his lap, clamoring against the metal of the bleachers.

"Hello?" Albus muttered under his breath. "Is anyone there?"

In his periphery, a shadow moved. The fabric at the entrance to his section fluttered. His feet moved without command, walking then running up the bleachers, springing from row to row even as his muscles screamed.

He whipped through the opening in the fabric and there it was. A figure. Standing under the protection of shadow, silent.

Holding his breath, Albus watched as the figure raised its right arm. Instinctively, his hand went to his back pocket, groping for a wand that lay hidden underneath the dark bleachers, next to the biography of the greatest wizard who ever lived.

"Joel, is that you?" he asked into the darkness. "If this is your idea of a joke, it's not funny."

The figure pulled back slightly. It seemed to recoil. Then there was a sniffling noise and the figure ran. Briefly, Albus considered following, but his exhausted muscles got the better of him. He sank to the ground, heart decelerating.

"Well," he exhaled. He balled his hands into fists, clenching and unclenching to calm himself. He snorted a laugh. "Bloody Gryffindor courage."

Leaning his head against the wall, Albus closed his eyes and breathed.

Fifteen minutes later, he assembled his things and began the trek up the thousands of stairs to the Gryffindor Common Room. On the way up, he rehearsed several different speeches he could lay on Joel when he got there. Subsequent versions included the phrases "bloody prick" and "are you in love with me or something?" and "you're responsible for my hospital bill when they have me committed for PTSD."

Anger burned in the pit of his stomach, flaring louder than his throbbing muscles. He was fully prepared to cuss—such colorful vocabulary he saved for the most opportune of moments—except when he finally stumbled into the Common Room, he was so fatigued that he immediately fell face first into the sofa, unconscious.

Joel was safe, for the next eight hours or so.


End file.
